


Delaying the Inevitable

by Lenore



Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Porn, First Time, M/M, Porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-10
Updated: 2010-06-10
Packaged: 2017-10-10 01:23:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/93676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Adam and Tommy are porn stars, and the rest is just inevitable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delaying the Inevitable

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for my [Birthday Smut-a-Thon](http://scribblinlenore.livejournal.com/522865.html). Big thank you to [](http://sorchasilver.livejournal.com/profile)[**sorchasilver**](http://sorchasilver.livejournal.com/) for the prompt (and the title!).

  
The comforter feels prickly beneath Tommy's back, the fabric some cheap shit, stiff like it's just come out of the package. Probably it looks like a dream on film, white and fluffy as a cloud, but every time Tommy grabs fistfuls of it, which he's been doing a lot since Adam first put his mouth on him, he has flashes of factories in Mexico, flame retardant chemicals that have probably been banned for twenty years.

Not that he can possibly care about any of that.

Adam hums contentedly as he sucks Tommy deep, pulls back, murmurs, "Baby," licking in long, hot stripes down Tommy's shaft. He has Tommy spread open, hands on the insides of his thighs, urging them wider, a pretty picture for the camera, but the way he goes at Tommy, with lollipop enthusiasm, that's _real_, not put-on for the sake of those lonely masturbators who will download the video from the Internet.

Usually these shoots are pure fakery, only with orgasms, and Tommy drifts away, somewhere else entirely, composing music in his head or making out his grocery list, while he pants and ruts and fucks and fucks. But Adam's white-hot sincerity takes him apart, and every little whimper, every _please, please_ that spills out of him is startlingly heartfelt, burning him down to a thread of pure need, the first time that's happened in his brief, but very busy porn career.

Of course, that is the point here: first time for everything.

"Adam, Adam," Tommy begs, hands moving in Adam's thick, soft hair.

Adam smiles, soft-eyed, mouth full of cock, and it's personal and weirdly sweet, and the only natural response seems to be for Tommy to spread his legs even wider. His hole is wet and open and all Adam's, because that's the point, but Adam doesn't go for it, not yet. He curls his tongue and works his hand on the base of Tommy's cock and sucks lavishly, like they have all the time in the world. Like there isn't a crew being paid union scale hovering just past the lights. Like Adam's cock isn't flat against his belly, wet and dark with want.

Like the main event, what everyone is waiting for—Tommy most of all—hasn't been inevitable since the very beginning.

  


* * *

Here was something Tommy understood about the porn industry from day one: being slight and blond and pretty made everyone instantly want to cast you as the bottom-slutty twink, no matter how many times you oh so patiently explained your straightness.

"Oh my God!" Bartie Ralston, failed B-movie producer turned successful erotic film entrepreneur, leaped to his feet when Tommy showed up in his office for his interview. "You! You're the one. The shy but horny chorus boy who gets carried away at his audition and ends up in a gangbang of epic proportions. The new star of 'All That Jizz'!"

"Um. Actually, I'm here about 'Poonstruck'?"

_This is only temporary, just until I get a steady gig._ Tommy bit his lip, hoping he hadn't said that out loud.

Apparently not, because Bartie Ralston seemed stuck on the "Poonstruck" thing. "What?" He frowned severely enough that his eyebrows touched the bridge of his nose. "No. What? Don't you get it? I'm offering you all the cock you can handle!"

"That would work better for me if it were pussy?"

"No. Seriously?"

"_Seriously_." Bartie's shoulders drooped, and Tommy figured he had about three seconds before he got kicked out of the place. "Do you want—I can—" He motioned vaguely at the door.

Bartie waved him off. "Okay, fine, have it your way. We'll try you in 'Poonstruck' if you'll also sign on for the 'Dickinator' as the unlikely top who has to fuck his way through Chelsea in order to thwart a terrorist plot that could lead to global nuclear annihilation."

Global nuclear annihilation? That seemed like a hard-on killer, if ever there was one, but whatever. It was a job, and Tommy had bills.

Bartie puffed up, his mullet shimmying with indignation, like an angry cockatiel. "Don't make that constipated face at me! 'Dickinator' is quality adult entertainment, which you should be honored to star in, and a lot of 'straight' guys go the 'just as long as it's not in my asshole' route with the gay stuff, so don't give me attitude about it."

He actually made air quotes on the straight part, which kind of pissed Tommy off, and yet three minutes later he found himself scribbling his name on the bottom line, agreeing to a two-picture deal.

"Shooting starts day after tomorrow," Bartie said, with a nod of satisfaction at the signed contract.

Tommy was already halfway down the hall when Bartie's voice, insufferably smug, drifted after him, "You know you're going to end up with a dick in your ass eventually, right?"

  


* * *

The least convincing part of gay porn for Tommy is always the big, epic scene of ass-eating, the top going down like he's a starving man, making yummy noises like it's an all-you-can-eat dessert buffet instead of, you know, _ass_.

Adam…well, Tommy gets it now, why Adam's co-stars always look wide-eyed and wrecked when he's done with them, the slightly haunted expression that usually goes along with a religious conversion. Adam eats ass _tenderly_, with tongue and fingers and the edge of teeth, with his whole heart, like it's his mission in the world to spread the gospel of rimming.

"Come on! Do it! Put it in me!" Tommy arches up, shoulders coming off the bed, straining, reaching for Adam.

Adam hums, as if in agreement, except he keeps pushing his tongue deeper, God, _so deep_, and when Tommy gasps, pleasure shivering up his spine, that hum turns to a low purr in the back of Adam's throat.

"Please." Tommy's voice quavers, threatening to break.

He grabs for his dick—he feels like he's been hard since the beginning of time, his balls heavy and aching between his legs—and he strokes desperately, once, twice. He's trembling, on edge, and when Adam suddenly presses both thumbs into him, that's almost it. He has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from coming, the strain probably obvious on film. Shit. He can't—he has to come on Adam's cock, that's the point, the only script.

This thing where Adam turns Tommy into a dick-happy teenager with no self-control is seriously getting to be a bad habit.

* * *

The day Adam showed up in Tommy's dressing room for the first time, Tommy knew who he was, could guess why he was there. Adam Lambert was a star, in a gay porn way at least, the gorgeous dom with the warm smile and the blue eyes and that huge cock, who coaxed happy submission out of his co-stars not with a flogger, but his relentless sweetness.

_Bartie must be desperate if he's sent Adam Lambert_, that was what Tommy thought at the time. Tommy had developed something of a following in his brief career, the tiny, unexpected top with a bossy streak, and in the Internet forums where people talked about such things, the question kept coming up again and again: _When is TJ gonna bottom???????_ Because no one would be satisfied until the natural order of the universe had been restored, and the fey blond boy was taking it up the ass. Bartie smelled the profit potential in that naturally, and so he'd sent Adam Lambert.

"I know why you're here, and the answer's no," Tommy told him that first day, a matter of principle, refusing to be type cast.

Not that this stopped him from sneaking sidelong glances, because, whatever, Kinsey scale, and Tommy was only human, and Adam was even hotter in person than in his films, if that was even possible, a long, lean line of jeans and crazy-printed T-shirt and crocodile boots.

Adam pushed off from the wall where he'd been slouching, sexy as all hell, and came closer, a purposeful air that was almost predatory, except for the way he was smiling, which was friendly, even kind. "Just wanted to say hey. I'm Adam."

Like an introduction was really necessary, but, whatever, Tommy played along, offering his name, and, "I'm due on set. I just—"

He glanced around, but no Jeanine, as usual. Tommy had the least dedicated fluffer in the history of porn, he was pretty sure. Even when she didn't disappear on him at the least convenient moment, which she did _a lot_, she had a tendency to go about her work with the glazed resignation of a file clerk. Tommy would close his eyes and do his best to ignore that the person going down on him could possibly nod off, right in the middle of it, out of sheer boredom.

"Yeah, I saw her out back taking a cigarette break." Adam's mouth quirked up, just one corner of it, which was ridiculously adorable, not that Tommy cared or anything. "I didn't get the idea she was coming back any time soon, but, hey, I can help you out with that."

He moved faster than Tommy could get out the words, _That's okay, I can handle it_, pulling at the belt to Tommy's robe, nudging it open.

_No thanks_ probably hadn't ever been much of an option, and it completely went out of Tommy's head when Adam dropped to his knees, fluid and graceful, smiling up at Tommy with his bright, cornflower eyes. He'd already bested Jeanine, right there, with that one little gesture. Tommy was half hard, excitement coiled at the base of his spine, waiting to be unleashed. Adam smiled wider and drew a finger lightly up Tommy's length and bent his head.

Adam's cocksucking wasn't business-like, that wasn't the right word, it was just very, very _direct_, long, deep twists of his mouth, the way you eat ice cream when it's in danger of melting, greedy, determined.

"Oh, _fuck_," Tommy gasped, helpless to prevent it, sinking his fingers into Adam's hair which was just as soft as it looked.

"Mm, baby," Adam pulled away long enough to say, and then the hot-wet-oh-God was back again.

Tommy realized he was ready, not just hard, but holy shit, fucking _ready_, turned on and teetering, right as Adam slipped a finger behind his balls, drawing a line straight to his hole.

"_Fuck_," Tommy yelped, _this_ close to screwing up the shooting schedule.

Adam pulled back, smiling up at Tommy happily, stroking Tommy's hip. "Break a leg." He got to his feet, running his tongue up the length of Tommy's body as he went. "Later, baby." He winked and gave Tommy's cock one last affectionate fondle before ambling off.

Tommy still wasn't breathing quite right when he walked onto the set.

  


* * *

"I can't." Tommy thrashes his head on the pillow.

Adam kisses the inside of his knee, sweetly. "You can, baby."

The dildo slips in Tommy's hand, sticky and wet, and he fumbles to grip it tighter as he grinds down, the rubbery head nudging his prostate, sending electric-hot rippling all through him. His thighs shake, and already he's so weak from pleasure his bones feel like water, both heavier and less substantial.

"So good, baby. So good." Adam's hands are everywhere, stroking Tommy's hip, soothing along his side. He brushes random kisses wherever he can reach but never blocks the camera, because he's not just an old hand at this, he's a natural.

"Please!" Tommy wails, not even caring anymore that he's begging to get the shit fucked out of him in front of an audience.

Adam's hand covers Tommy's on the dildo, taking charge, the strokes coming deeper, faster.

Tommy bucks up. "Fuck!" His hips rise to meet the thrusts. "I can't—_Adam_!"

"Almost there, baby. Almost," Adam croons.

He gives his own cock the occasional stroke, but there are no lines of strain around his mouth, no desperate light in his eyes. He could probably do this all day. Meanwhile, Tommy can feel the flush creeping up his chest, sweat-damp along his hairline, the tension in every part of him like an over-stretched guitar string, ready to snap at the right touch.

It's less a wonder that Adam has the staying power of a stallion than that Bartie Ralston has the patience to let him draw this out. Bartie's direction to Tommy is always, _Cut to the fucking! I need more fucking!_

But then maybe even someone like Bartie Ralston is smart enough to recognize a true artist at work when he sees it.

* * *

The second time Adam turned up out of the blue Tommy had just finished what was quite possibly the worst day of his porn-making life. The shooting of _Laid in Manhattan_ had gone about as well as he'd expected with two co-stars, Tina and Ashlee, who hated each other under the best of circumstances and who had just found out that the camera guy Matt, a greasy ponytail type, had been two-timing them both.

Tommy trudged out to the parking lot with that feeling he often got after a long day on set, like he just wanted to keep his dick to himself for the rest of his life. He found Adam leaning against a car, a Mustang, as dark and shiny as himself. Adam gave Tommy the appreciative once-over, smiling playfully.

"Not in the mood," Tommy told him, clipped and tired.

"You don't want dinner?" Adam's eyebrows rose dramatically, as if he couldn't imagine how that could be true.

Tommy snorted. "Yeah, right. Like this is a date." Bartie Ralston was nothing if not a persistent son of a bitch.

"Home cooked," Adam insisted, as if that was an answer to anything. "Come on. Get in."

Tommy couldn't really explain how he ended up climbing into the passenger seat. Maybe he was just too tired argue. They drove to a neat condo complex, pretty white hacienda style buildings with red tile roofs. Obviously Adam did well for himself, and Tommy liked to think he could start looking for a nicer place soon. He'd almost finished ransoming back everything he'd had to hock before taking off his clothes seemed like an okay way to pay the bills.

Inside, Adam's apartment answered the question: _What would it look like if David Bowie had decided to become an interior decorator?_ Everything was shiny and extravagant, black and white and lots of purple.

Adam caught Tommy around the waist and spirited him off to the kitchen. "Don't think I'm not going to make you work for your supper."

On the menu was vegetable stir-fry, and Tommy bent over the cutting board, clumsily wielding a knife that could have qualified as a blunt object, mangling carrots and zucchini into odd-shaped bits. He looked like a natural in the kitchen compared to Adam, who glanced from the page in the recipe book, with its newly broken spine, to the wok, so shiny it had clearly just come out of the box, and back again, blankly, as if this were his first day on Earth.

"Have you ever even been in a kitchen before?" Tommy wrangled a particularly stubborn piece of broccoli into submission.

"I have other talents," Adam insisted, which made Tommy blush as a picture of Adam's cock zinged through his head, and then he turned even redder when it turned out Adam had actually been referring to his ability to dial for dinner.

Ten minutes later, they sat down to pizza and Chianti.

"So, tell me about music," Adam said, conversationally, between bites of pepperoni.

"Wait. How do you—" Tommy frowned at him in a vaguely accusatory way.

Adam gave him a mysterious smile and waited, and Tommy never had been able to resist the opportunity to talk about his favorite subject. He started with _Jimmy Page is a guitar-playing God, and I know people say that all the time, but I seriously fucking, like fall down on my knees and worship, mean it_, because that was kind of his anthem, and since he was already on the topic of Led Zeppelin, it seemed like he should go ahead and share every opinion he'd ever had, because he'd given that band a lot of thought, lingering on the part where people who believed "Stairway to Heaven" was cliché just because everybody liked it had no soul to speak of.

He was out of breath by the time he finished and ready to flip Adam off if he started laughing, but Adam was leaning in, looking interested, which Tommy wasn't prepared for. It seemed like maybe this was a good time to start clearing the table, which earned him an amused lift of the eyebrow from Adam.

In the kitchen, Tommy stacked up the dishes on the counter and eyed the dishwasher. "Do you want me—"

"Oh, God, yes. Thank you." Adam reeled Tommy in by the wrist and laid the kind of kiss on him that Tommy had never believed existed, the kind that left him instantly hard.

Maybe he'd been a tinderbox ever since Adam first touched him, and this kiss was definitely a spark, and they were all over each other in an instant, the counter biting into Tommy's back, Adam's hands leaving shivery trails on Tommy's skin as he slid them beneath Tommy's T-shirt.

"Horizontal," Adam muttered, breath warm on Tommy's neck, and that only made sense when Adam started walking Tommy backwards, out to the living room, over to the couch.

Tommy fell back onto the cushions, Adam on top of him, warm and heavy, kissing and rutting. Tommy twisted frantically, trying to get his hard-on against Adam's thigh, and breathed a sigh of relief when Adam expertly opened their jeans, circled their erections in one big, capable hand, and started jerking them both off.

"Please." Tommy didn't even know what he was begging for, shivering, face pressed against Adam's shoulder.

Adam's mouth moved hot and wet on his neck, and he tightened his grip, jerked them harder.

"Oh fuck, oh fuck," Tommy babbled.

It was over, kind of embarrassingly quickly, for both of them. Tommy collapsed back against the cushions, sticky and heavy-limbed, managing to push Adam off him, at least enough to be able to breathe. That seemed as far as Adam was willing to go, tucking himself along Tommy's side, stroking a thumb along Tommy's collarbone, tracing it through the fabric of his T-shirt.

"I know what this is," Tommy felt the need to say, for pride's sake or something. "I know you want to fuck me for your next film."

"_Bartie_ wants me to fuck you for my next film," Adam corrected. "I just want you naked and under me. I don't care how it happens."

Tommy opened his mouth, but no sound came out, because what was there to say to that? It wasn't like the answer was no, which Adam knew perfectly well.

"I could take you to bed right now." Adam's voice rumbled in Tommy's ear. "Or I could take your cherry on camera, and Bartie could pay you a shitload of money for it."

"Hey!" Tommy pushed huffily at Adam's shoulder.

"Go on, baby." Adam grinned. "Tell me how you're not a virgin."

He slipped his hand between Tommy's legs, trailing his fingers back and back, making Tommy suck in his breath.

Adam kissed Tommy's jaw, his expression suddenly serious. "Take the money. Make your music. Get out of this shitty industry while you still can."

"Why do you—"

"I saw you."

_Duh_. Everyone had seen pretty much everything Tommy had.

"At a club," Adam clarified, "playing with a band, before you—that's what you should be doing."

"Why do you even care?"

"I like music." And then more softly, "I remember having dreams."

Before Tommy could ask, Adam started kissing him again, and Tommy really did want to know, but he never had been any good at multi-tasking.

* * *

_Those fuckers on the Internet are going to get their fucking money's worth_ is Tommy's mildly hysterical thought as Adam, _fucking finally_, decides it's time to get down to it. Tommy's arms flail around Adam's neck, clinging, as Adam lifts Tommy bodily, swinging him onto his lap, settling him lower, lower, all the way down, hands on Tommy's ass, spreading him apart for the camera, and Tommy can just imagine the picture that makes, Adam's huge, gorgeous dick disappearing inside him.

Here's one more lesson the porn industry has to teach Tommy: Maybe there really is no such thing as being ready to be fucked for the first time. Not when the guy doing the fucking is Adam, who is just big, big, enormous, and every time Tommy thinks he has Adam's dick all the way inside there's still, like, a _fucking mile_ of it still to come, and Tommy really prefers to believe that the little catch in the voice he keeps hearing— okay _sob_, whatever—is one of the gaffers mourning the loss of a favorite cable.

"You're so beautiful, baby," Adam whispers against Tommy's throat. "God, you feel so good. Just relax. Relax, baby. I'm going to take such good care of you."

And Adam does, hands on Tommy's hips, oh so careful, and Tommy just wants to laugh, because can't Adam see that there's nothing to be careful about? Tommy's already come apart at the seams, and each stroke of Adam's cock inside him, blazing trails of pleasure now instead of pain, just wrecks him a little further.

"Adam, Adam," Tommy says, breathless and like it's torn out of him, and he fucking defies anyone to say porn is boring after they've seen this.

Seen him and Adam.

The foreplay took forever, so to do the narrative justice, the fucking has to take twice that long. Adam moves Tommy into various positions, because lonely masturbators who beat off to porn on the Internet like variety, but Adam has the same dreamy smile on his face the whole time, whispering sweet, private things, as his thick, hot cock turns Tommy inside out.

When Adam moves Tommy just so for the camera, and it's finally, _finally_ time for Tommy to come, he lets out a relieved little whimper, not even embarrassed about it. Adam closes a hand around Tommy's cock, and it's not going to take much more than a pull or two, and just before Tommy tips over the edge, into that place where all he can think is _oh fuck yes_, he wishes that Adam would come inside him, that he could feel what that's like. But he knows. That's not where the money is.

Tommy is like a ragdoll afterward, wrung out, letting Adam lay him back on the bed. Adam kneels beside him, smiling down fondly, and Tommy rubs circles over Adam's thigh while Adam jerks off. Words come streaming out of Tommy's mouth, predictable stuff, but what really matters is the way they never look away from each other, not once, like nothing else exists.

There's silence after Bartie yells _And cut!_, because apparently the crew feels as dumbstruck as Tommy.

"Oh, fuck me, that's going to make them jizz in their pants all over the Internet!" Bartie's voice brings them all back to reality.

He bustles off, dollar signs flashing in his eyes, and Adam says to the crew, "Hey, guys, could you—", and then it's just the two of them.

Adam curls around Tommy, a little protectively, lacing their hands together. "You okay?"

Tommy nods, still kind of floating.

"You think you might want to do it again sometime?" The hopeful note in Adam's voice is just _ridiculous_, considering that he just ruined Tommy for all other guys, and quite possibly women too.

Tommy turns on his side and finds Adam watching him, actually waiting for an answer, as if it weren't the biggest foregone conclusion the world has ever known. "Next time in your bed, no audience, and I want you to come inside me."

Adam's mouth quirks up at the corner. "Kinky, baby."

Given what they do for a living, it really kind of is.

"Also," now that Tommy has begun making demands he figures he might as well really go for it, "What's up with this 'I had dreams once too' bullshit? You have a fucking gorgeous voice, and you shouldn't be wasting your time on this porno bullshit."

"How—"

Tommy rolls his eyes at the idea that he wouldn't have done his research. "YouTube is forever, and you really need to be in a band with me, like _right the fuck now_, and that's just that."

Adam gives him a thoughtful look. "You sound very sure of yourself."

Tommy nods, curling deeper into the circle of Adam's arms. "I think the word you're looking for is 'inevitable'."

 


End file.
